Page 49 of The Collector
“Because sometimes it is better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
She lowered her hand. “Beg.”
“I want to run an operation for you.”
“Oh, you can do better than that.”
“Ibegof you to let me run an operation for you.”
“What sort of operation?”
“It might be better if I had my old chalkboard.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Rimona reached for her phone. “You’re a sneaky bastard.”
“I was trained by the best.”
“So was I, Gabriel. Never forget that.”
26
Mount Herzl
The patient suffered from a combination of post-traumatic stress disorder and psychotic depression. Nowhere in her voluminous files, however, was there an accurate description of the terrible incident that had induced her condition, only a vague reference to a terrorist bombing in a European capital. Also absent was the name of the man, a former spouse, who continued to bear the cost for her round-the-clock care. As was often the case, he gave her doctor scant warning of an impending visit.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” said the doctor. “But I’d like a few minutes alone with you first.”
“Is something wrong?”
“An encouraging development, actually.”
The hospital was located in what was once the Arab village of Deir Yassin, where Jewish fighters from the Irgun and Lehi paramilitary organizations massacred more than a hundred Palestinians, including women and children, on the night of April 9, 1948. Several of the village’s buildings remained standing, including the old Ottoman-erahouse where the doctor, a rabbinic-looking figure with a wondrous beard of many colors, kept his private office.
The former husband of his longtime patient sat on the opposite side of the cluttered desk. It had been several minutes since either man had uttered a word. In fact, the office was silent except for the occasional turn of a page. One page every minute, thought the doctor, who was watching the sweep of the second hand on the wall clock. Not fifty-eight seconds, and not sixty-four. One page every sixty seconds. The man must have been born with a stopwatch in his head.
“These are extraordinary,” said Gabriel at last.
“I thought so, too.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Hers.”
“You never encouraged her?”
The doctor shook his head. “In fact, given the disordered state of her mind, I was afraid of what she might produce.”
“What happened?”
“I walked into the art room one day about six months ago, and there she was with a charcoal pencil in her hand. It was as if she suddenly remembered that she used to be a painter. She insisted I show them to you.” He paused, then added, “No one but you.”
The silence returned. The doctor stared into the cup of lukewarm tea he was holding in his hand.
“She’s still madly in love with you, you know.”
“I know.”
“Most of the time she thinks the two of you are still—”
